The young man walked through the building in quiet strides, his presence barely noticed—yet never hidden. He passed by every stationed guard, each nodding in habitual acknowledgment, never questioning. He walked past hushed conversations, the low murmur of administrative whispers drifting through sterile hallways, as though the very walls knew how to keep secrets.

  Eventually, he arrived at the room he had come for.

  Inside, a cluster of physicians sat at their desks, absorbed in their notes and monitors. One of them looked up as he entered, eyes widening in recognition.

  "You're Dr. Loc Wallace, aren't you?" the physician called out, rising from his chair. "The one who was sent for treatment? How have you been? We've heard quite a lot about you."

  Loc paused for a beat, then offered a soft smile as he stepped forward and extended his hand.

  "Yes. That’s me."

  "You were an excellent doctor," the man added with genuine warmth.

  Their hands met in a brief, respectful shake—neither one lingering longer than necessary. Soon after, they exchanged a few more pleasantries, and the staff returned to their duties. Dr. Wallace, however, continued toward a smaller hallway that led to his former office—his space, long untouched since his departure.

  The door creaked faintly as he opened it.

  Everything was preserved as he remembered. He placed his coat on the back of the old chair, spread out his documents with practiced ease, and took a seat behind the desk. For a long moment, he simply looked around, soaking in the familiarity. Then, with calm purpose, he picked up a patient file—the first case since his return.

  "Elara Wynn"

  The name and details stared back at him from the page.

  He murmured to himself as his pale blue eyes scanned each line, absorbing everything with clinical precision.

  Soon, he stood, opened the office door, and stepped out into the hall once more—heading toward the room of the patient whose mind would soon be under his care.

  "Hey, Doctor."

  The voice pulled him to a stop.

  It was the same female guard from the reception area—her uniform crisp, eyes curious. Loc turned to her with that same subtle smile he wore so well, a quiet invitation for her to walk alongside him.

  "You really are a doctor here," she said, sounding almost relieved. "I asked one of the older guards. He said you were one of the best. Kind, too."

  He gave a faint chuckle, slow and amused.

  "You must be new. How long have you been working here?"

  "Three months… give or take."

  There was a moment’s pause. She seemed to hesitate, as if unsure whether to speak further, then asked carefully:

  "And… I heard something else. That a few months ago, the director sent you to another facility. For treatment."

  She tilted her head slightly. "Why?"

  He paused mid-step, his body turning just slightly toward the guard as if the weight of her question had finally settled on his shoulders. There was something in his gaze—a tired glint, softened by the edge of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

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  “It’s not uncommon,” he said slowly, voice like a distant echo in a long hallway. “For psychiatrists—those who carry the burdens of others for too long—to become patients themselves. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mara blinked, caught off guard by the candid answer. She studied his face for a moment, then nodded with quiet understanding.

  “Yes… You’re right. Doctor or patient—we’re still human in the end.”

  That answer made him smile, more genuinely this time. It was faint, but warm.

  He turned away, continuing his walk, the sound of his footsteps soft on the tiled floor. But after a few steps, he stopped again and looked over his shoulder.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mara. Mara Voss.”

  “Voss?” he repeated thoughtfully, as though savoring the name. “Perfect. I’ll see you after I check on my patient, Voss.”

  He gave her a brief nod and a soft, knowing smile before continuing down the hallway—leaving behind a trace of calm in his wake.

  Mara stood there a moment longer, her expression unreadable, but the corner of her lips had lifted. As if something warm had taken root in her chest, she turned and headed back to the guard station.

  In the staff room, she let herself sink into the worn couch with a soft sigh. The scent of instant coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the buzz of a half-broken vending machine nearby.

  A young male guard noticed her as he entered, raising a brow with a teasing smirk.

  “Well, someone looks unusually cheerful today. What happened, Mara? Met a handsome man or something?”

  She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at her lips.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I just spoke to a genuinely kind doctor. That’s all. It’s no wonder everyone wants to be seen by him. You could learn a thing or two, you know. Try being like that, Vincenz.”

  Vincenz laughed, the sound light and easy as he plopped down beside her, offering her a cup of coffee.

  “Me? I’m just a guard. Didn’t exactly graduate med school.”

  “True,” she said with a mock sigh, taking the cup. “But psychiatrists are just people who know how to comfort others. Anyone can learn to do that.”

  She took a sip of the coffee, letting its warmth settle in her hands. Vincenz chuckled beside her.

  “Then maybe we’re all halfway to being doctors.”

  They laughed together

  [Room 047, 10:37 PM]

  Dr. Wallace stepped into the dimly lit room, the soft hum of a flickering fluorescent light above casting a weak glow over the walls. A faint metallic buzz pulsed in rhythm with the tension that hung in the air.

  The woman on the bed was already upright, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her eyes—glassy and wide—followed him the moment the door clicked shut. He dragged the lone chair in the room and set it across from her, easing into it with the air of someone both careful and weary. Then he offered her a warm, practiced smile.

  “My apologies for the late hour, Mrs. Wynn,” he said gently, voice smooth like a lullaby. “You look like you haven’t slept in… how many days?”

  Wynn’s reply was immediate, sharp. “About as long as it’s been since you stopped killing people.”

  Dr. Wallace’s smile faltered only slightly, the corner of his lip twitching upward again. He tilted his head, like one might when trying to comfort a startled rabbit. But his eyes remained unreadable, calm—too calm.

  “I treat people, Mrs. Wynn,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t kill them.”

  He leaned in, folding his hands in front of him.

  “Just like I’m trying to help you, right now. Have you been taking the medication prescribed to you?”

  Her breathing quickened. She shook her head, clutching her knees tighter.

  “That medication doesn’t help,” she spat. “It makes everything worse. The hallucinations—they’re stronger. That clown... it’s in here now. It’s right behind you!”

  She jabbed a trembling finger toward the space just over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.

  Dr. Wallace paused, slowly turning his head to glance behind him. The corner of the room was empty—of course it was. No shape, no shadow, no clown. Just peeling wallpaper and the cold breath of the vent overhead.

  He turned back, a long, slow exhale leaving his nose.

  “I see,” he said, standing up in one smooth motion. “You haven’t been compliant with your medication.”

  She was still shaking, whispering now—words incoherent, fragments of fear in rapid succession. Her gaze stayed fixed behind him even as he moved.

  He reached for the door.

  “I’ll speak to the nurse about adjusting your dosage,” he said, casting a final glance her way. His voice remained kind, but there was something just beneath it—something detached. Professional. Distant.

  And then he was gone, leaving the door to click softly shut behind him.

  Inside the room, Mrs. Wynn pressed herself back against the headboard. Her eyes still locked on the empty corner